


The Mating Rituals of the Silver Fox

by fennecfawkes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bro-ing Out with John Watson, Designated Football Ale, Excessive Banter, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Maddeningly Lengthy Courtship, Waistcoats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1386733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mycroft Holmes is enigmatic till he isn't, and Greg Lestrade is merely curious till he's smitten. Characters do not belong to me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Mystrade outing. Please be gentle!

“My brother fancies you.”

Greg Lestrade looks up at Sherlock Holmes and blinks, as though that will change what Sherlock’s just said. Greg is crouched next to one of the only pieces of evidence at the crime scene—a dog collar, human-sized—and he’s attempting to puzzle something out, but this may be a worthy distraction.

“Your brother,” says Greg, “is too busy running the government to fancy anyone. Also, I’m not sure we’ve ever spoken, beyond being introduced by John. You never introduced me to your brother.”

“Why would I?”

Greg rolls his eyes and takes a closer look at the collar. “I think there are chew marks here.”

“The wear is consistent with a collar used for sadomasochistic role play,” says Sherlock. “Chew marks aren’t out of the question. We’re looking for a man. He hasn’t been inclined toward such proclivities until recently, and he’s quite out of his depth, given where he purchased this.”

“Are you familiar with the sort of shops that would sell dog collars for humans, then?”

Sherlock tapped the label sewn inside the dog collar. “No. But I can read addresses. And my brother doesn’t have to speak to you to know everything about you.”

“While I suppose that’s true, it seems like fancying ought to be based on more than just knowledge.”

“You’re a reasonably good-looking man,” says Sherlock. “No visible scarring, no pronounced deformities, you’re not fat, you’re not ugly, and, unlike John, the color of your hair does nothing to age you. My brother likes reasonably good-looking men. Passably intelligent ones, too. And men that have an inclination toward danger. And so he likes you.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Greg says before pulling an officer aside and telling them to question the shopkeep of the dubiously named store Sherlock’s sniffed out.

“No?” Sherlock raises one eyebrow and turns up his collar, which went askew at some point—Greg’s sure Sherlock finds that truly unacceptable. “Then why is he here right now?”

Greg takes a look around. Sure enough, Mycroft Holmes is discussing some thing or another with a cop Greg doesn’t recognize. He takes a step toward Mycroft.

“No, no, no,” says Sherlock, stepping in front of Greg. “If he wants you, he’ll let you know.”

Greg shakes his head and does what he can to change the subject. “Where’s John, anyway?”

“Date night,” Sherlock says flatly in a tone that clearly indicates he doesn’t want to talk about it. Greg holds back a smile. He’s long since figured out that Sherlock’s deeply envious of anyone else who captures John’s attention. That’s his spot, after all.

“Mary seems nice,” says Greg.

“‘Nice’ means nothing,” Sherlock says. “I’m going home. Don’t talk to Mycroft.” He turns on his heel and stalks away, and Greg’s left looking at Mycroft, who spares a glance at Greg and nods his head stiffly. Greg shakes his head again. Not a chance that Sherlock’s right. Not one single chance.


	2. Chapter 2

“What do you know about Mycroft?” Greg asks John Watson. They’re on Greg’s couch, watching the Arsenal and Man City match they’ve both been looking forward to for weeks—Greg’s an Arsenal man, while John’s been following Man City his whole life.

“Mycroft Holmes?”

“You know many Mycrofts?”

“That’s fair.” John pauses to take a swig of Newcastle, their designated football ale. “Not a lot. Kidnapped me once, but he was perfectly cordial about it. He’s rather helpful in bringing people back from the dead and setting the government to rights.”

“Anything else?”

“Why the sudden curiosity about Sherlock’s brother?”

“When we were last on a case—missed you, by the way. Now that I’m used to you being there, Sherlock’s insufferable again.”

“I appreciate the thought,” says John.

“Anytime. Anyway, Sherlock told me, apropos of nothing, that his brother fancies me. Then Mycroft turned up at the crime scene, seemingly without cause, and nodded at me.”

“Nodded at you? Why, that’s practically courtship.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Greg says. “I have no reason to believe the man even knows my name.”

“To be fair,” says John, “neither does his brother.”

Greg waves his hand dismissively. “So I’m just wondering about, you know, personal history. Does he date a lot? Is he a good shag? You know, the usual.”

“Why on earth would I know that second bit?”

“You assist a consulting detective.”

“And you’re Detective Inspector.”

“I’ll give you that,” Greg says. “You know nothing, then?”

“Mycroft’s kind of a closed book,” says John. “We’ve hardly spoken. I don’t think he’s with Anthea, if that helps.”

“I try not to think about Anthea,” Greg says. “Kind of fall down a black hole with that one, you know, thinking about her ... her everything, I suppose.”

“Hear, hear,” says John, clinking his bottle against Greg’s. “I do have to ask, if Mycroft were interested in you, would you respond to that? I thought you were more interested in women.”

“Depends on the day, really,” Greg says. “I married one, but I was fairly indiscriminant before that. And ... I’m not sure. He’d run rings around me, intellect-wise. But he’s good-looking, and he’s well-connected, and sure, I suppose I’d agree to a date.”

“Interesting. What about Sherlock? What if he asked?”

Greg snorts. “I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon.”

“Why’s that?”

“Are you blind?” Greg shakes his head. “Man’s been gone for you for years.”

“Has he?” John’s face is flushed and Greg tries not to laugh. “He ought to have done something about it before dying, then.”

“But you’re straight.”

“But he’s Sherlock,” says John, as though that explains everything, and Greg supposes it does.

“Imagine the sex,” Greg says.

“I have, and it’s frankly hilarious,” says John. “Can you imagine how much calculation would go into a single grope from Sherlock Holmes?”

“I’ve always tried not to.”

“I probably should, too,” John says. “Don’t want to disappoint Mary. Although she does quite like Sherlock. Maybe she’d be open to it. Watching, at least, if not participating.”

“Please stop talking.”

“No, now you’ve got me started.”

“Not my intent. Not even a little.”

“I’ll try to make it to the next case, if nothing else,” says John. “If he misses me that much.”

“He does,” Greg says. “And you keep things sane. Arsenal’s got this, you know.”

“I know.” John sighs. “Another round, then? Celebratory for you, sorrows-drowning for me?”

“Sounds about right,” says Greg, going to the kitchen and retrieving drinks. He opens them on the edge of the countertop, because he can, and hands one to John as he settles back in. “Sherlock, by the way, told me not to talk to Mycroft first.”

“How often do you listen to Sherlock?”

“Pathetically often.”

“And about this?”

Greg shrugs. “Can’t see a reason not to. Look, there’s no way this is a real thing. Sherlock could be wrong. He is sometimes. Especially about feelings.”

“True,” says John. “So, you’re just going to wait to be courted, then? No pursuit on your end?”

“Let the ceaseless waiting begin,” Greg says, knocking his bottle against John’s. “Cheers.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think of this as a bit of boring run-up. I tried to make it interesting but damn, Mycroftian dialogue is hard to write.

This one hurts, Greg thinks, because while you obviously never want to see anyone dead, there’s something particularly painful about the lifeless body of a child. Thankfully, it’s puzzled out quickly—the rather careless father left his wedding ring behind, as though he wanted to be caught—and Greg can leave the scene. Or he could, if he weren’t interrupted.

“I’m surprised you didn’t contact Sherlock,” says Mycroft Holmes, who’s quite suddenly standing at his elbow. “He so enjoys the grisly ones.”

“Too open-and-shut for him, really,” Greg says, attempting to make casual conversation, puzzled as to how one does that with Mycroft. “He left a ring. It’s engraved. He wanted to be found. He feels guilty, probably doesn’t actually believe the wife was cheating, and he knows there was no reason to take the girl along with her.”

“Very astute,” Mycroft says with a nod. “You’ve gone beyond the open-and-shut portion of the case.”

Greg gets the feeling that Mycroft isn’t one to dole out many compliments. He tries not to show how flattered he is. “I know what it’s like, being cheated on. This isn’t the revenge you take. You don’t take revenge, really. And I suppose if you don’t believe it—if it’s hysterical—it looks rather different.” He’s not sure why he’s just dropped in that he’s been on the wrong side of infidelity. Relevant, sure, but not exactly ... well, what kind of conversation is this, anyway? But Mycroft just nods again.

“I often find that life experience leads to the wisest observations,” he says. “Regardless, I am impressed.”

“Well, thanks,” says Greg, fighting back a blush, and how many years has it been since he’s had to do that? Judging from the other man’s smirk, he assumes Mycroft can tell he’s disarmed at this point.

“I would think a man of your stature would know how to take a compliment,” Mycroft says.

“My stature?” Greg snorts—rather inelegantly, he thinks. “I’m a copper. Not much stature there.”

Mycroft waves his hand dismissively. “You’ve been a valuable member of the Yard for years. You’ve somehow retained credibility despite enlisting the aid of my brother, you rarely, if ever, leave a single stone unturned, and I just watched you solve a case in less than five minutes. You have stature, Detective Inspector, whether you realize it or not.”

“I suppose I have no choice but to accept that,” says Greg, and he smiles at Mycroft, just to see where that gets him. It’s not quite a smile he receives in return, but it’s somewhere near there. “Really, it’s just nice to be reminded that I don’t always need Sherlock around to put something together.”

“It’s likely you rarely need him,” Mycroft says. “He may hasten the process, but you could do it on your own. Well, you and her.” Mycroft gestures at Donovan, who’s standing next to their car, looking pointedly at her watch, then Greg, and then back at her watch again. “Oh, am I holding you up? I apologize.”

“She could leave without me if she really wanted to,” says Greg. “But she won’t. She’s like that. Maddeningly impatient and ludicrously considerate.”

“Have you been working together long, then?”

“Years. You know when you get to a point where you’ve got a kind of shorthand with a fellow worker, and you’ve nearly become each other’s right hand? It’s like that.”

Mycroft nods. “I assume you spend time together outside of work, then.” There’s a slight lift at the end of his sentence, as though he doesn’t want to assume—wants to leave it to question instead.

“Oh, no. We’d get horribly bored of each other,” says Greg. “I don’t really see anyone from the Yard outside the Yard.”

“The structure of my workplace isn’t what you would call traditional,” Mycroft says. “My job is often a solitary one. But I can imagine that seeing the same group of people all the time might get tiresome.”

“It’s not always great fun,” says Greg. “But they’re a good group. And one member of said good group is looking at me like she wants me dead, so I’d better get going.”

Mycroft lifts his chin slightly. “Of course. I imagine we’ll see each other again. Eventually.”

Greg hesitates before throwing caution—and, perhaps, sanity—to the wind. “If we want to make that sooner than eventually, we could have lunch together sometime.”

Mycroft studies Greg for a moment. Greg begins feeling slightly sick under his gaze, calculating and focused as it is. Finally, Mycroft says, “I’d prefer dinner.”

“Oh. Right. Sure. Anything in particular in mind?” Greg is stammering. He is well aware of his own stammering. And Mycroft’s smirk—yeah, it’s back—unnecessarily confirms it. But there’s no malice in Mycroft’s expression, so at least that’s something.

“There’s an Indian restaurant near the Yard I quite enjoy,” says Mycroft. “The Cinnamon Club. Have you been there?”

“Can’t say I have. But I’d never say no to a good Indian place.”

“I realize it’s short notice, but would you be available tomorrow evening? I’m out of town for a week the morning after that.”

“Tomorrow’s great,” says Greg. “I’ll meet you there, then?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I’ll send a car. 5:30? Are you still there then?”

“I can be. You really don’t have to do that, though.”

“I’d like to,” Mycroft says, and it’s soft, almost gentle, and Greg tries not to admit to himself that Sherlock might have been right, that there might be some affection here. But he can’t really help it, and he’s got no power over the damn fluttery feelings he’s having, looking at Mycroft’s cheekbones and jawline and very slight smile.

“Fair enough. I should go. Sally might actually kill me otherwise, and then I’d never get to have dinner with you.” Greg grins, and he’ll be damned if Mycroft didn’t just show teeth for a second there. “See you then.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” says Mycroft, and Greg hurries toward the car before he can do or say something stupid. Donovan’s already turning on the ignition when he sits down.

“What on God’s green earth was that, Greg?” she asks as they head back to the Yard. “You have some kind of aristocracy kink I didn’t know about?”

“Ha, ha. Have you considered a career in stand-up comedy when this whole cop thing doesn’t pan out?” Greg’s smile is probably betraying his sarcasm, but he doesn’t care. “That’s Mycroft. Holmes. Sherlock’s saner, better-looking older brother.”

“Uh-huh. And chatting up a Holmes is certainly a good idea.”

“You should be happy it’s Mycroft I’m going out to dinner with and not Sherlock.”

“I’ll turn in my badge the day I catch you and Sherlock in the act. In any kind of act,” she says. “My career isn’t worth the nightmares those images would trigger.”

“You and me both,” says Greg. “It’s been a really, really long time since I’ve been out with anyone. If a date is what this is. And I think it might be.”

“What made you try for it, anyway?”

“You assume it was me trying first?”

“I do,” she says. “That man is way too proper to ask anyone out first.”

“Fair, but he was the one who upgraded it from lunch to dinner.”

“You’re not getting out of the original question.”

“Oh.” Greg pauses and considers jumping out of the car before he says, “Sherlock told me he was interested.”

“I see,” says Donovan. “And I imagine you’ll be keeping this information as far from Sherlock as possible for as long as possible.”

“I absolutely will be.”


	4. Chapter 4

He’s never had his food ordered for him before, and it would be emasculating if Mycroft didn’t do it so smoothly, with his perfect pronunciation and clear foreknowledge of each dish. He also asks for what Greg is sure is the appropriate wine pairing without consulting the sommelier, who looks a bit dazed by Mycroft. And well he should—the man’s foregone the waistcoat for the night, by which Greg was briefly disappointed. Then he began to understand why this particular shirt and coat combination didn’t require it. It’s a bit more casual than what he’s seen Mycroft wear in the past, the coat and trousers a shade of blue just this side of bright, and a white shirt with pinstripes so faint they may as well not be there. It makes Greg feel a bit better about his relative lack of fashion sense, though he did wear a tighter button-down than usual, and it’s one his sister approved last time she was in town, so that’s something, right? Mycroft’s eyes did rake over him when he first arrived—a good sign, to be sure—and he’s feeling alright. Not quite worthy of someone who knows how to dress like Mycroft does, but maybe somewhere close to that.

“I hope you don’t mind that I did the ordering,” says Mycroft, breaking Greg’s reverie. “I thought it might make things easier, since I’ve been here before and I know what I like. Hopefully it will be to your liking as well.”

“I’m sure it will,” Greg says, smiling. “Pretty much anything that isn’t work will be to my liking right now.”

“Rough day?”

“Bit of a slog,” says Greg. “Someone up and quit on us, and because of seniority, or something like that, I’ve been stuck with fixing the schedule.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Hardly ever, and he seemed happy, too. I guess you can fake that pretty easily, though. Anyway, I was glad I had plans tonight. Got me out of staying late to cover.”

“If it was very important that you stay there,” says Mycroft, “you could’ve let me know.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Greg says. “And no, I really couldn’t have. I don’t have your number or anything, and I wasn’t about to ask Sherlock for it.”

Greg can tell Mycroft’s nearly to the point of laughter, but it doesn’t happen. In time, he thinks. Mycroft reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, from which he draws a card with his name and number. He hands it to Greg. Their fingers brush together, and Greg’s stupidly giddy over that. From Mycroft’s posture and mannerisms, he senses the man isn’t too wild about making casual physical contact. Maybe Greg can fix that. It’d be a shame not to touch him at all tonight.

“So I take it you did not mention my invitation to Sherlock,” says Mycroft.

“It was my invitation,” Greg says, and Mycroft raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Greg’s never been good at that raising-a-single-eyebrow business. He’s immediately jealous, considering how Mycroft looks doing it. “And no, I didn’t say anything to him. He ... He thinks he knows everything, so maybe it’s better if there’s at least one thing he verifiably doesn’t know.”

“An interesting way of looking at it,” says Mycroft. “So he only thinks he knows everything? You don’t agree with his lifelong assessment of his own correctness?”

“Oh, so he was like this when you were kids, too? God. I can’t even think about that. Kid Sherlock.”

“It was likely not as nightmarish as what you’re picturing.” The waiter returns with their wine and first course—of eight, so Greg hopes conversation continues flowing easily. As he pours, the look on Mycroft’s face approaches fondness. “Certainly, he was still questioning everything back then, but there were fewer homicides involved. It was mostly to do with what we were and were not allowed to watch on Sunday mornings, and when our parents procured Christmas presents and where they hid them.”

“So he was more of an amateur sleuth, then?”

“You could say that.” Mycroft pauses to take a drink before asking, “Do you have any siblings?”

“One sister. Rose. And she’s got three kids, so I’m off the hook for a bit there.”

Mycroft lifts his chin in acknowledgment. “I’m sure our mother would like grandchildren, but considering...” He shakes his head slightly. “What is it like, having—are they nieces or nephews?”

“Two nephews, one niece,” says Greg. “And it’s nice. They’re in Edinburgh and we trade off visits once a month. Lily’s still a baby, and I just pass her off when she’s being fussy and facilitate wrestling matches between Colin and Danny. Not a bad gig, really. By the way, this food is about the best thing I’ve eaten in years.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Mycroft says, and he looks it. “Your sister doesn’t mind the wrestling, then?”

“As long as something else has their attention for a bit, I’m not sure she cares what they’re doing,” says Greg. “And they never hurt each other. Really well behaved, for the most part, actually. And almost eerily cute.”

“It sounds like you care a great deal about them.”

“Suppose that’s true. And it’s a nice excuse to go to Edinburgh.” Greg smiles. “I was going to ask if you’ve been, but from what I know, you’ve been everywhere.”

Mycroft nods and very nearly smiles back. “That’s close to accurate, yes.” He pauses. “I wonder how much you do know.”

“I’ve heard you’re the British government. Nothing more specific than that, I’m afraid.” Courses two and three turn up, and Greg waves his hand in what he hopes is a thankful gesture. The waiter nods and—what?—winks, and Greg’s face flushes. He can tell Mycroft’s trying very hard not to laugh.

“That’s also close to accurate,” says Mycroft. “It seems you have an admirer.”

“Just one?” Greg asks before he can stop himself. Mycroft’s skin is already quite pale—pleasingly so, Greg thinks, a nice contrast with his own olive tones—but he seems to go even paler at this, and Greg is vindicated.

Talking to Mycroft, he finds, is much easier than he anticipated. Sure, it’s abundantly clear that Mycroft is approximately ten thousand times more intellectual than Greg is, but he’s not holding that over Greg, nor is he condescending. There’s much to talk about, it turns out—Mycroft, unlike Sherlock, keeps up with football, and he follows Chelsea, so he and Greg are rivals by default. Mycroft doesn’t have time for it, but he loves going to the cinema when he can, and he has an odd appreciation for pulpy American films, which Greg finds oddly charming. Mycroft has read everything Alexander Dumas ever wrote, “give or take a lost manuscript or two,” in his words, and he has a cat named Dantès to show for it. Everything about Mycroft, Greg is finding, is worth his own curiosity. And as they make their way around to the eighth course, and Mycroft’s picking up the check even as Greg reaches for it, and Mycroft’s walking Greg to a familiar black Jaguar outside the restaurant, Greg’s wondering just how soon he’ll be able to satisfy his curiosity again.

“I would like to do this again,” says Mycroft after they sit in the backseat and Anthea begins driving. “If that’s something you would be interested in.”

“It is,” Greg says, looking at his hand next to Mycroft’s. He’ll let Mycroft make the first move there, a first move he’s almost certain won’t be happening tonight. “If you want, I could cook for you. I’m a passable cook.”

“Passable? That’s a strong pitch.”

“I don’t want to get your hopes too high. But I’ll move that passable up to good if it’ll entice you.”

“Consider me enticed,” says Mycroft, and not for the first time, the word “want” flashes through Greg’s mind. “I will be out of the country, as I’ve said, until the Friday after tomorrow. Should we plan on next Saturday?”

“You said out of town, not out of the country.”

“They mean essentially the same thing.”

“Next Saturday’s perfect. Any foods you absolutely won’t eat?”

“I’m open to experimenting,” Mycroft says, and there’s that word again in Greg’s mind. He tries to tamp it down and reintroduces the topic of film, making sure to get Mycroft’s opinion on Wes Anderson (too much, usually, but _The Royal Tenenbaums_ is certainly worth watching). He gets in one last jab at Chelsea before he’s being dropped off in front of his flat. Greg starts to exit the car, and it’s as he’s getting out that Mycroft briefly takes Greg’s hand in his and squeezes.

“I had a wonderful evening, Gregory,” he says.

“I did, too,” says Greg, liking the way Mycroft makes his name sound. “Mycroft,” he adds, testing it out, and Mycroft smiles and Greg thinks he’s passed that test.

“Until we meet again,” Mycroft says, and he lets go, and Greg shuts the door. Being a grown man, he doesn’t skip up to his flat. But he wants to.


	5. Chapter 5

“If I tell you something, will you not tell Sherlock?”

“Are you asking me to promise you that?” John puts down his drink and turns to look at Greg. They’re at John and Mary’s flat this time, since Mary has her book club and John’s TV is bigger. His couch isn’t comfier than Greg’s, but it’s passable. “Because that’s rather teenage girl of you.”

“I just know you’re going to want to tell him, and I don’t think I’m ready for him to know. So yeah, I suppose I am asking you to promise me that.”

John groans. “You went out with Mycroft.”

“I went out with Mycroft,” Greg confirms. “And there was an Indian restaurant, and there were eight courses, and he paid for us, and Anthea drove me back to my flat, and he held my hand, and it was all very ... nice.”

“Just nice?” John picks his ale back up, takes a swig. “So you won’t be going out with him again?”

“I said _very_ nice, and I’m underselling,” says Greg. “He’s just grossly intelligent, and distractingly good-looking, and he likes film and literature and the worst team in the League.”

“Chelsea?”

“Chelsea.”

“They’re not actually bad, you know.”

“Anyway, I’ve been telling myself that I’m not hung up on him, that I’m just kind of interested in something casual, but I know that’s not true and I hate myself a bit for it.”

“Seems like a perfectly reasonable justification for hating yourself,” says John. “And you don’t want Sherlock to know because...?”

“Because he predicted it. It was basically his idea for me to ask him to dinner—”

“You asked him?”

“Well, to lunch,” Greg says. “And he upgraded it, I suppose. I just can’t give him that satisfaction, you know?”

“He does already have a lot of that,” says John. “You do know that if you want to go out with him again, and I’m thinking you probably do, judging from the stupid look on your face—”

“Need I remind you what you were like when you first started going out with Mary?”

“Point taken,” John says. “Anyway, if you want to date him, Sherlock’s going to find out eventually. Sooner rather than later.”

“...So?”

“So, wouldn’t you rather tell him yourself?”

“Not particularly, no,” says Greg. “The best case scenario would be him catching us, you know, having it off with each other.”

“And why on earth would that be the best case scenario?”

“John, do you have any idea how many times I’ve been embarrassed by or in front of Sherlock Holmes?” Greg asks. “How gratifying would it be for him to see me being, well, gratified?”

“I’d say it’s a fair point, but I’m having trouble shaking the mental image. Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

“Didn’t you have dinner two hours ago?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t have Thai then,” John reasons. “Come on, doesn’t curry sound good to you?”

“I suppose.” Greg’s mobile beeps, first once, then insistently at intervals, so he takes it out of his pocket. No number shows up on its screen, just the words “Restricted Number.” He has a pretty good idea of who it might be and answers.

“I thought you were somewhere undisclosed that isn’t London,” Greg says, going on his hunch.

He can practically hear Mycroft’s smirk through the phone. “How did you know it was me?”

“Who else do I know that’s posh enough for a restricted number?”

“I suppose that’s valid. My trip was cut short.”

“Lucky me, then.” Greg hopes he doesn’t sound too giddy. Judging from the look on John’s face, though, he absolutely does. “Did you want to meet up sooner than Saturday, then?”

“It’s Thursday, Greg.”

“Well, there’s still a day in there.”

“Eager, are we?”

“I don’t know, are we?”

“You cannot see me right now, but be assured that I am shaking my head at you.”

“So we’re not, then?” Greg doesn’t even try anymore; he’s full on grinning, and John’s looking at him like he’s gone completely mad.

“I would be more than happy to see you tomorrow evening, though I’m afraid it won’t be so early this time,” says Mycroft. “I will be available around 8pm.”

“Will you be hungry at 8pm?”

“I imagine I will be. Are you still planning to cook for me?”

“I am. I hope you like Italian.”

“That could be risky,” Mycroft says. “I was just in Italy and the food was exquisite.”

“This will be at least decent, I promise. And you can’t beat the company, right?”

“I suppose not.”

“That’s what I like hearing. I should go.”

“Is Ms. Donovan planning your murder?”

“No, but Dr. Watson might be.”

“Oh, are you at Baker Street?”

“No, no, I’m at John and Mary’s. John and I watch football together sometimes. You could join us, if you’d like.”

Mycroft laughs; it’s short but not humorless. “No, I think I will leave that to the two of you. Until tomorrow, then.”

“Right. Good night, then.”

A pause, and then: “Good night, Gregory.”

Greg pockets his phone.

“You look unbearably smug right now,” John observes. “Can I order that curry yet? Panang still your favorite?”

“Yeah, sure, go ahead,” says Greg. “And I should look smug. I have a date. Again.”

“Some people don’t feel smug when they’re being forced to slave over a hot stove all day.”

“I am not slaving. I offered it in the first place. And there’s no way I won’t get at least a kiss goodnight after he tastes my Bolognese.”

“If he’s tasting your Bolognese,” says John, “I certainly hope you’re also kissing. Otherwise I’m not sure what to think of your moral standards.”

“You’re hilarious.” Greg’s sarcasm is slightly undercut by the smile on his face. That seems to be happening a lot lately.

“And you’re ... God. You’re smitten, Lestrade. Absolutely smitten.”

“I’d argue, but you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Too right, I wouldn’t.” John takes out his mobile. “Panang?”

“You’re paying,” says Greg. “For giving me so much shit about this.”

“I’d say I wouldn’t, but you brought the drinks, so...” John waves his free hand dismissively. “Oh, and before you ask, I won’t tell Sherlock.”

“How did you—”

“I just know.” John dials his mobile, and Greg leans back, kicks up his feet, and puts his attention back on the match.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s 7:59 when Greg hears a knock at his door. He lets in Mycroft, who’s holding a bottle of wine and back to wearing a full suit—grey, mostly, with a bit of not-quite-navy blue thrown in. Which, naturally, Greg doesn’t mind at all, though his work clothes had gotten a bit scruffy and now he’s in well-worn jeans and a Human League t-shirt that’s faded almost beyond recognition.

“I’m worthy of a waistcoat again, then?” Greg reaches out and takes the bottle. “Thanks. Ooh, Chianti’s a good choice.”

“I find it pairs exceptionally well with traditional Italian cuisine, so I hope you’re not messing about with some sort of fusion,” says Mycroft. “And I didn’t realize my wearing a waistcoat came with a level of worthiness.”

“Of course it does,” Greg says absently, rummaging through one of his many kitchen cabinets to find a pasta fork. “It means I’m as important as work, or close to.”

“Were you insulted at our last meeting, then?”

“Not at all.” Greg begins dishing up Bolognese for Mycroft and himself. “Could you do me a favor and reach up in the cabinet directly behind your head? There should be appropriate glasses there for the wine. Glad you’re tall.”

“I consider it a virtue, yes,” says Mycroft, retrieving a pair of glasses. “Why were you not insulted? If you do truly believe there’s an assignation of importance that comes along with what I wear on an outing.”

“Well, I was maybe less important that night,” Greg says, uncorking the Chianti and accepting the glasses from Mycroft. “But I was also someone you were comfortable enough with to let your hair down, so to speak. And that’s a different kind of important. You look great, by the way. That’s what I meant to say before. You look really great.”

Mycroft nods somewhat stiffly, looking embarrassed. “Thank you. You also look—”

Greg laughs. “Don’t say ‘great,’ I look like utter crap.”

“I was going to say ‘wonderful,’” Mycroft says softly, and Greg feels his face redden. “May I assist you in any way?” Greg wordlessly hands Mycroft his plate and glass, and the two of them sit opposite each other at Greg’s smallish kitchen table. His new place isn’t as big or as homey as the old house was, but considering it’s the product of a recent divorce, it’s not so bad. He especially likes how he’s set up the kitchen, with the wooden table and chairs in a rich walnut finish.

Greg and Mycroft begin their meal in silence—not awkward, Greg thinks, but oddly comfortable for how shortly they’ve been spending any real time together—before Mycroft lets out a soft little moan that gets Greg’s pulse racing.

“This is divine, Gregory,” says Mycroft. “You must cook often.”

Greg shrugs, pleased with both the compliment and the use of his full name. It sounds almost unbearably seductive coming from Mycroft, though Greg’s close to certain that’s not the intent. Many things about Mycroft, really, are unbearable in their magnetism, but Greg’s trying (in vain) to ignore that. “Thanks. And yeah, when I can, I do, though takeout’s fairly normal for me. The job doesn’t really allow for cooking all the time.”

“And yet, here we are.”

“Here we are,” Greg agrees, lifting his glass and extending it toward Mycroft. Mycroft picks up his and clinks it against Greg’s; their fingers brush together, and Greg chides himself for the thrill that goes through him at that minimal contact. “How was Italy?”

“Productive. Not much else worth commenting on, I’m afraid. How was your evening with Dr. Watson?”

“Oh, fine. Ate too much, drank just enough, watched my team lose.”

“Is Dr. Watson an Arsenal fan as well?”

“You can call him John, Mycroft,” Greg says, amused. “And no, Man City. But it doesn’t usually matter too much who’s actually playing. It’s more a ritual at this point, ale and bitching about Sherlock. That’s why I was keen to invite you.”

Mycroft smiles slightly. “It’s good that the two of you have each other,” he says. “John certainly needs someone who understands his issues with Sherlock, and from what I have gathered, Mary is more sympathetic to Sherlock than anyone ought to be.”

“John would love to hear you say that,” says Greg. “Though I don’t suppose you and John talk very often.”

“No, we didn’t meet under the best of circumstances, and I’m afraid that association is one John carries with him.”

“He likes you just fine. Gave me plenty of shit for having a date with you, but that’s just because he’s happy for me and that’s how he shows it.”

“So that was a date, then?” Mycroft smirks. “That’s what you’ve been telling your friends it was?”

“What, it wasn’t?” Greg, were he more dramatic, would swear he felt his heartbeat slow. He swallows. “What was it, then?”

“No, I agree that it was, though there was some debate among my staff,” says Mycroft. Greg enjoys his sense of relief before taking note of the term “staff.”

“I know you have Anthea, but who else is there?”

“Liam is my driver and Kenna is my housekeeper,” Mycroft says. “I imagine you will meet them both in time.”

“I’ve never seen anyone but Anthea drive you.”

“Because I trust Anthea to be discreet and safe around crime scenes, where I most often see you.”

“In the future,” Greg says, choosing his words carefully, “I think it might be nice if you most often see me in places other than crime scenes. Like here.”

Mycroft studies Greg closely, and Greg wonders what kind of test he’s being administered right now.

“Yes, I think that would be nice,” says Mycroft. “If you had mentioned you could cook any sooner, that may already be the case, though I fear you’ll spoil me in time if you’ll allow it.”

“I’ll encourage it,” Greg says. “I asked John not to mention this—” He gestures from himself to Mycroft. “To Sherlock. Not because I’m ashamed, just because I’m not ready for that. And I’m not even quite sure what ‘this’ is yet.”

“I’d call it a friendship with a potential for distinctly more,” says Mycroft. “And I understand your hesitance at letting Sherlock know, though I have reason to doubt that Dr.—that John can keep a secret from him for very long. They may not live together anymore, but Sherlock would like it if they remained inseparable.” There’s something off about Mycroft’s expression. Greg identifies it almost instantly.

“You know about Sherlock’s feelings for John, don’t you?” asks Greg.

“I have a bit more than an inkling, yes,” Mycroft says. “I imagine he’s never spoken to you about it.” Greg shakes his head. “He’s never said anything to me outright, but he has admitted that he cares about John more than anyone else on this earth. It’s not the only thing he said during his dark period.”

“Is that how you refer to that bit when he was fake dead?”

“It’s what he chooses to call it when it is discussed, at least with me.”

“I don’t think it’s quite accurate,” says Greg. “Sounds like he’s an artist and that was a phase he went through where all his paintings were black.”

Mycroft laughs. “Indeed. He does have a certain flair for the dramatic. And yes, I am well aware that I share this trait.”

“It’s not a bad thing on you,” Greg says, grinning and picking up his plate. “Are you done? Would you like any more? I’m going to have a bit extra, so...”

“That would be lovely,” says Mycroft, and Greg reloads their plates, experimentally running his foot along Mycroft’s under the table after sitting back down. Greg feels Mycroft’s leg stiffen before his toes curl and clamp around Greg’s; it’s the most intimate game of footsie Greg’s ever played, and he can’t fathom how this is quite so _hot_.

“I should warn you that it is entirely too easy for me to gain weight,” says Mycroft, apparently not realizing that Greg can’t think of anything but the feeling of pressure on his toes under Mycroft’s. He does his damnedest, though.

“I can’t believe that’s true,” Greg says. “You and Sherlock have been the same level of enviably thin since I’ve met you, whereas I have to run every morning in order not to gain a stone a week.”

“You’re a runner?”

Greg nods. “Typically just around St. James’s Park before I go to work. Between that and not smoking anymore, I’m nearly healthy.” Mycroft’s a bit pale. Paler. “Something wrong?”

“You’ll have to forgive me for my distraction at the image of you running,” says Mycroft. His toes uncurl, relinquishing their grip on Greg’s, and Greg immediately misses the warmth. He takes the opportunity to run his foot along the length of Mycroft’s calf.

“You flatter me, you know,” Greg says between bites. “I’m really not much to look at in running tights.”

“I find that very difficult to believe.” Mycroft’s not that shade of pale anymore. He looks sure of himself now, as though Greg berating himself has somehow emboldened him. “I don’t think you have any idea of how attractive you are.”

“Could say the same of you.”

“Due to a lifetime of mockery from my dear brother and an utter lack of romance,” says Mycroft.

“You’ve stayed well away from that, then?”

“Until now, one hopes.”

Greg grins and tips his glass in Mycroft’s direction. “Want to take this to the couch? I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to make dessert.”

“I’m sure I will find it in my heart to forgive you,” Mycroft says dryly.

“I can take your coat, by the way,” Greg offers as they make their way to the sitting room. Mycroft complies, shrugging it off, giving Greg an improved view of the long, lean lines of his body. Granted, he’d like an even better look, but he’ll settle for this. He hangs up Mycroft’s coat before joining him on the couch.

“This is an almost obscenely comfortable couch,” Mycroft comments. Greg wonders how close he’s allowed to sit; experimentally, he scoots toward Mycroft so their legs are nearly flush against each other. Mycroft doesn’t move. Greg holds back a sigh of exasperation and turns on a _Top Gear_ marathon in progress.

“Favorite _Top Gear_ commentator. Go,” says Greg.

“I haven’t watched this program in years,” Mycroft says. “But the good-looking one who isn’t mopey or brash.”

“Richard is the best,” Greg agrees. “And it’s still pretty entertaining, though I don’t imagine you get much time to watch much of anything.”

“I care more about film than television, when I do get the chance, as you already know. But this is nice. This is, foreign a concept though it is, relaxing.” And then Mycroft’s leg is warm against his, and Mycroft’s hand is on his thigh, and he was right, this is relaxing, relaxing and simple and maybe just a little bit perfect. Greg decides to take his chances and puts his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders.

“Pushing our luck a little, are we?”

“You’re the one touching my leg.”

“You have me there.”

Greg leans his head against Mycroft’s shoulder and feels the softest brush of lips against the crown of his head. He falls asleep that way, and eventually, Mycroft wakes him to say goodnight. He kisses Greg—closed-mouthed, yes, but it’s something—and when he asks if it would be excessive to get together again the next night, Greg can only laugh before shaking his head and forming a plan and getting entirely too carried away for a man of his age.


	7. Chapter 7

Sometimes, Greg is powerfully reminded, his sister has the capacity to squeal like a 13-year-old. And while it’s often annoying, he can take it this time, considering the cause for the squealing.

“What’s his name? What’s he like? Tell me everything,” says Rose. They’re Skyping. It’s been a while, long enough that the boys look about five years older and the baby—Lily, he reminds himself—isn’t really a baby anymore, closer to toddler, he supposes. Colin and Danny have already run by to say hello and ask when they get to visit again; Greg promises them it will be very soon, though he has no idea when Rose and her husband want to plan a trip.

“His name’s Mycroft. He works for the government.” Safe, and really, still all he knows. Not that he foresees that changing anytime soon. “We see each other at crime scenes occasionally, though I still haven’t figured out why he’s at the ones he’s at. Maybe I should ask.”

“Mycroft? Did his parents hate him on sight?”

Greg laughs. “It suits him. Very posh. Lots of three-piece suits and pocket squares.”

“So Christine soured you on women for a little while?” Rose asks, and Greg laughs again.

“Not really. You know I don't discriminate. And he’s been lurking about for a few years. We just now kind of connected.”

“Two dates, then?”

“And number three’s tonight.”

“Have you cooked for him yet?”

“Yeah, I did. Last night. He seemed to like it.”

“Of course he did.” Rose rolls her eyes. “It’s one of your redeeming qualities.”

“You make it sound like there’s not very many of those,” says Greg.

“I wish you had a picture,” Rose says wistfully.

“I’ll try to get one tonight and text it to you.”

“I’d prefer if you took it while his clothes were still on."

Now it’s Greg’s turn to roll his eyes. “Please. It’s been two dates.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“Well, we haven’t done anything,” Greg says. “I told you he was posh. He’s also quite ... proper. He did kiss me last night, though.” He pauses. “On the top of the head, while I was mostly asleep, and once on the lips with his mouth closed. But still.”

“Let me guess, you fell asleep curled up on that ludicrously comfortable couch together whilst watching reruns of _Skins_.”

“Two grown men watching _Skins_ reruns borders on pedophilia,” says Greg. “It was _Top Gear_. And don’t tell me I work too hard. I’ll start calling you Christine.”

“Perish the thought,” Rose says. “What do you have planned for tonight?”

“No idea, actually. Going to his place this time, which is probably a mansion across the street from Buckingham Palace.”

“He’s rich, too?”

“I get that feeling,” says Greg. “He acts like it. He dresses like it. But it doesn’t bother me. I thought it might. It’s a nice surprise.”

“He sounds different from anyone who came before him,” Rose says.

“He is. In a really good way.” Greg hears screaming in the background. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“I thought David could handle Lily for a bit, but apparently that’s not on. I should dump them on you sometime, you know. You’re so good with her.”

“I am?”

“You are. Does Mycroft want kids?”

“I don’t know, Rosie. We didn’t discuss that on our first or second date.” Well, actually, they nearly had. But that wasn’t worth mentioning. “Should you go save the life of your husband?”

“Yes, I probably should. Love you, Greg.”

“Love you, too.” Greg signs off and stands up, running a hand through his hair. He has time to get it cut this afternoon, and he probably should, but when he’s with someone, he likes them to have something to play with. Resolving to leave it as is, Greg looks at the clock above the television. Mycroft’s scheduled to pick him up in two hours, and Greg’s alarmed to realize he has no idea how to piss away the time that remains. He can’t remember the last time he had a Saturday with quite so much time to do nothing. And suddenly, he’s terribly, irrepressibly bored.

Sitting down on the couch, he reaches for the remote. Maybe a _Top Gear_ and a half, and then he’ll get ready, whatever that entails when you’re a silver-haired forty-something going for date number three with someone who will undoubtedly look far better than you could ever dream of. Greg sighs deeply and slinks further into the couch. Perhaps if he starts getting ready immediately, he’ll look halfway to presentable in comparison to Mycroft. He dismisses the idea and, while he may be paying some attention to the visuals—it’s not _Top Gear_ , it’s some science show also hosted by Richard Hammond, and it’s clearly for children—his mind is very, very far from what’s on. Instead, he’s running over bits and pieces of his and Rose’s conversation. _Kids_? Is she insane? But the part about the possibility of Mycroft wearing less than all the clothes on Savile Row, that’s a bit more intriguing. Not that Greg hasn’t thought of Mycroft in that regard already—of course he has—but Rose suggesting that he typically moves much faster than this, that made him think, made him wonder if Mycroft is special somehow. Like he deserves some distance because he’s somehow better than the men and women who came before him. Greg’s trying to keep a level head about this, but it’s hard, really, considering the circumstances, which he’s currently listing to himself, in numbered order:

1\. Mycroft is, aside from possibly Sherlock (and Greg’s not certain Sherlock has the edge), the smartest person Greg’s ever met.

2\. Mycroft is tall and fair and auburn-haired and strong-jawed and, in a way only a man can be, beautiful.

3\. Mycroft is extremely important. Things happen for Mycroft.

4\. Mycroft listens.

5\. Mycroft dresses like some simile Greg hasn’t come up with yet.

6\. Mycroft understands the importance of a good meal.

7\. Mycroft has fine taste in film.

8\. Mycroft’s laugh is easily one of the best sounds Greg’s ever heard.

Really, really hard.

When the episode of the show Greg hasn’t really been watching ends, he turns off the telly and embarks on the daunting task of looking good for Mycroft. From what Mycroft has said, from how he behaves, Greg doesn’t have to strain himself for Mycroft to approve of his looks. But, he thinks, opening his closet, it doesn’t hurt to put in some extra effort. He lands on another of Rose’s selections, a cashmere sweater that had seemed too decadent when he’d bought it. Now, it seems perfect for a night in with a man who wears waistcoats the same way most men wear jeans. (Crap analogy, really, but it didn’t matter, Greg wasn’t using it out loud, and Sherlock wasn’t here to critique him anyway.) He still opts for jeans, because that’s what looks good on him, and it’s not as though they’re going anywhere or doing anything that would require formalwear. At least, not that Greg knows of.

By the time Greg hears a rap at the door, he’s more than ready for a night out—in, he corrects himself, as he opens the door to say hello to Mycroft and is greeted with a different Holmes altogether.

“I’ve been putting this off, Lestrade,” says Sherlock, stepping around Greg and making a beeline for the couch. He flops down onto it, kicking his feet up on one of the armrests. Greg winces, hoping Sherlock’s boots aren’t too heavily lined with debris from crime scenes and 221B. “Where did you find this couch?”

“Just at Heal’s,” Greg says. He has some idea of why Sherlock is here, but the idea is so ridiculous that he’s having trouble believing it. “What are you doing here?”

“I understand that you and my brother have been fraternizing.”

Greg snorts. “One word for it, yes. We’ve been out together.”

“And I understand that he is a grown man who can make his own decisions, at least in theory. Still, if you do not handle him with the utmost care, Mycroft is liable to trip and fall and break into a million tiny pieces like a modern-day Humpty Dumpty.”

“I think Humpty Dumpty was an egg, Sherlock.”

“The point remains,” says Sherlock. “Be careful with my brother. And I will not have need to step in.”

“Oh, God,” Greg says. “Please, never, ever, ever, _ever_ feel that need.”

“That lies entirely on you, Gavin.”

“Greg. It’s Greg. It’s always been Greg.”

“I know,” says Sherlock, standing and heading toward the door. “Now it’s just kind of funny, right?”

“No, it—”

He’s already gone. And not two minutes later, there’s another knock at his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now whenever I'm sad, I just imagine Mycroft and Greg being really emotionally invested in Sid and Cassie's relationship.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a night in.

“I don’t have any idea how he was able to slip past without my noticing,” says Mycroft, and Greg can hear the admiration in his tone. “If it truly was as short a gap as you say.”

“Yes, I hardly had time to recover from your brother threatening me before you got here,” Greg says, resisting the urge to lean against Mycroft or take his hand or do something equally ... pathetic? Silly? Childish? Something like that. Liam’s driving them this time, and though being chauffeured is an odd feeling, Greg doesn’t mind the closeness to Mycroft. Even if he’s not brave (or stupid) enough to touch him. The way Mycroft’s dressed—relatively casually, for him, in charcoal grey trousers and a blue button-down, no tie—does make him wish he was, though.

“Sherlock would never actually hurt you,” says Mycroft. “He finds you too valuable. I will admit to some flattery in this situation.”

“Flattery?”

“He aspires to be my knight in shining armor, Gregory.”

“One way of looking at it, I suppose,” Greg says, and, fuck all, he pulls Mycroft’s right hand into both of his and begins massaging. He’s never been with someone who didn’t like this, and Mycroft seems to be no exception; he breathes out softly, visibly more relaxed than before. Greg grins and rubs the tips of Mycroft’s fingers for several minutes, neither of them saying anything, before letting go with one hand and lacing their fingers together with the other.

“So, I guess this is OK, then?” he asks.

“Clearly,” says Mycroft, and they sit, holding hands, Greg with a goofy grin, Mycroft with a slight smile, in companionable silence till they’re rolling up the drive to a house a bit less posh than what Greg was expecting.

“Not palatial enough for you?”

Greg feels his face redden. “I’m sure it’s lovely. It’s just ... I think my concept of who you are aside from what I already know might be a bit skewed.”

“Perhaps spending some time here will clear things up for you,” says Mycroft. He’s still smiling.

“I just hope your cat likes me,” Greg says.

“He’s quite picky,” says Mycroft. “Don’t be offended if he doesn’t pay you any attention.”

Liam opens the door for Greg, which is odd, and Greg’s not sure he likes it, but he’s fond enough of the way Mycroft’s hand feels on the small of his back as they walk into the house that he can ignore it. The house is indeed lovely on the inside, lots of nice-but-not-fancy furnishings and a smattering of framed paintings. Greg can’t identify any of the artists, but from the quality, he assumes they’re not reprints.

“I could give you a tour, but there’s really not that much to it,” says Mycroft. “Foyer, sitting room, kitchen, dining room, washroom, and another upstairs, along with two bedrooms and an office.” Mycroft leads Greg into the dining room, where the table is set with what appears to be their (quite generous) dinner—chicken tikka, if Greg’s right, along with naan and a chickpea salad and two pint glasses with just the right amount of head topping light brown ale.

“Well, this looks amazing,” says Greg, settling down in the chair Mycroft pulls out for him. For some reason, that feels infinitely more acceptable than having a door opened for him by a hired driver. “How much did you make?”

Mycroft laughs, a low chuckle that Greg’s heard once or twice before, and all he wants is to hear it again already. “I don’t brew my own ale, and I haven’t made bread outside my mother’s kitchen as a child. The salad and chicken, I did have a hand in.”

“Well, I’m already impressed. Can I eat it?”

Mycroft smiles. “Feel free. Oh, hello, Dantès.” Greg peeks under the table, and sure enough, a smallish grey cat is nuzzling at Mycroft’s ankle. “I’m sure it would make Gregory feel very special if you paid some attention to him as well.” Dantès meows plaintively and Greg watches as he trots away into the next room. Mycroft sighs. “Not today, I think.”

“I’ll grow on him,” says Greg. “I did it to you.”

“That required little to no effort on your part,” Mycroft says. “How is your food?”

“The three bites I’ve had were all wonderful,” says Greg. “I wish this table weren’t quite so big so I could reach your feet with mine. You’re a formidable footsie opponent.”

“The night is young, Gregory, and I daresay my legs are slightly longer than yours,” Mycroft says, proving it by skimming his toes over Greg's.

“What do you have planned for us, anyway?” Greg asks.

“Very little,” Mycroft says. “I thought we might watch a film and open a bottle of 21-year-old Glengoyne.”

“Just open it? Not drink from it?”

“You’re adorable.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” says Greg, tipping his glass toward Mycroft. “Hey, do you have any idea how Sherlock might have found out about us?”

“How much do you trust John?”

“Enough to think he wouldn’t have said anything. Although I did disgust him quite a bit with my half of our phone conversation Thursday.”

“Does he have a problem with this?” Mycroft gestures from himself to Greg, who’s delighted to be referred to as a “this.”

“Not that I know of, so long as he doesn’t have to hear about anything too graphic,” says Greg. “And since that hasn’t happened just yet...”

Mycroft rubs his foot against Greg’s ankle underneath the table. “I do hope you’re comfortable giving me a bit of time. I haven’t done anything like this, had any kind of romantic relationship, in quite awhile.”

“I haven’t given you the impression I won’t wait for you, have I?” Greg asks. “Because if I have, I didn’t mean to. You can take as much time as you need.”

“No, you’ve been perfectly patient.”

“On all of two dates.”

“Some men would have pushed for more on the first.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Greg takes a bite and chews, thoughtful for a moment. “Not men worth your time, though. And thank God you seem to think I am.”

“Of course you are, Gregory.”

Soon enough, they’ve finished their meal and they’re in front of the telly, watching the 1930s _Count of Monte Cristo_. Dantès still won’t deign to sit on Greg’s lap, but he’s curled up between Greg and Mycroft, so that’s something. Unfortunately, that’s also something that’s preventing Greg from getting close to Mycroft—something Mycroft notices before long.

“We’re going to have to fix this, I’m afraid, cat,” he says, gently moving Dantès to his other side and slipping his arm around Greg’s shoulders. Greg snuggles closer into Mycroft’s side and leans his head on his shoulder. Mycroft tightens his hold and kisses Greg on the crown of his head.

“This is the way to watch a film,” says Greg into Mycroft’s neck.

“You say that as though you’re actually watching,” Mycroft says.

“I am. It’s great. I can’t believe I’ve never seen it before.”

“Nor can I. There’s plenty more to show you in the way of thirties and forties cinema. For now, I think we do owe it some of our attention, though.”

And so they watch, and then there’s consideration of watching something else, but both of them realize it’s just past midnight and neither is quite alert enough for that.

“It’s too late for Liam to take you home,” says Mycroft. “The second bedroom is furnished if you’d like to stay there.”

“I don’t suppose you’d want me in your room with you, then,” Greg says, trying to keep any hopefulness out of his tone, likely failing.

Mycroft hesitates slightly before saying, “I do want you to. But I don’t think it would be the wisest choice right now. May I kiss you?”

“You never, ever have to ask,” says Greg, and then Mycroft’s leaning in and even if he’s not making it to Mycroft’s bedroom just yet, the night’s been well worth it, because Mycroft is a good kisser to the point of absurdity. Once, twice, and the third, all perfect, all pressure and urgency and passion, and Greg wouldn’t mind if this never ended, if his neck got blissfully sore craning to meet Mycroft’s lips with his, appreciating the soft murmurs from Mycroft’s side as he mouths his way along that gorgeous throat.

“Are you sure...” Greg says, quietly, roughly, knowing he doesn’t have to finish the question.

“Less sure by the moment,” says Mycroft, tone matching Greg’s. “But we should stop. We should hold off. Otherwise, there’s nothing more exciting for us on future dates, don’t you agree?”

“I don’t. But if you think that’s true, then I’m more than happy to go along with it.” Greg kisses him on the cheek before standing and pulling Mycroft along with him. As soon as they’re standing, Mycroft’s kissing him again, slow and soft and wonderful.

“To clarify, that was a goodnight kiss,” says Mycroft.

“I look forward to many more,” Greg says, smiling up at him. “Is there somewhere I can find pajamas, a toothbrush, that kind of thing?”

“I may have had the foresight to organize such accommodations,” says Mycroft. “Pajamas in the top drawer of the bureau, clothes for tomorrow in the second. The bathroom attached to the bedroom has everything you’ll need for washing up.”

“Thanks,” says Greg. “How did you know my size for everything?”

“Anthea has a good eye,” Mycroft says. “Shall we retire?”

“Yes, we shall,” says Greg, still smiling, and there’s one more kiss before they part ways at the top of the stairs, and he can’t recall ever having a date quite this satisfying.


	9. Chapter 9

“How was your evening with my brother?”

Greg sighs and tugs at his collar. He’s had to do that quite a few times today, as Sherlock’s with him and it wouldn’t do for Sherlock to notice the marks along Greg’s collarbones. His goodbye to Mycroft Sunday afternoon had been a long and enthusiastic and drawn-out one, and if Greg takes a moment and remembers, he can almost feel the sting of Mycroft’s teeth scraping—carefully, not quite painfully, just the right amount of pressure applied—along his skin. But he won’t be doing that, because Sherlock is _right here_ , and he’s already staring at Greg enough.

“You never used to care how my evenings were,” says Greg. They’re standing next to each other, waiting for Molly to return from what Greg can only assume is a lunch date, judging by the time of day and the slight pull at the corners of Sherlock’s lips. Greg may not have a mind palace, but he can tell when Sherlock’s feelings change toward someone, and he’s seen the man take a turn of some sort around Molly; since she got engaged, he’s been paying her slightly more attention, acting a little less caustic, and Greg wonders if this is how Sherlock displays affection.

“You weren’t fiddling about with my brother before,” Sherlock says.

“I’m not entirely sure what you mean by ‘fiddling about,’” says Greg.

“Courtship. Dates. Him trotting out his most expensive waistcoats. You purposely avoiding a hairstylist. And don’t get me started on the love bites.”

“Should’ve worn a turtleneck,” Greg grumbles, feeling his face go ruddy.

“No. Wouldn’t be a good look on you. And no one else will notice, because I can’t actually see them. I just know they’re there, judging from the number of times you’ve tugged on your collar.”

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s really worth it, working with you.”

“It’s not his blood,” says Molly, breezing through the door. “It’s not his wife’s, either. I don’t think he killed her, and whoever did killed him as well.”

“You’re likely wrong, but thank you for the analysis,” Sherlock says. “The factual portion ought to be helpful. Were you out with Todd, then?”

“Tom. Yes.” Molly looks at Greg and rolls her eyes.

“And how is he?”

“Where’s this caring-about-people thing coming from?” asks Greg.

“I don’t care. I’m merely curious,” Sherlock says curtly. “What blood type was it?”

“B-negative.”

Sherlock nods. “We’re off, then. Molly, always a pleasure.” He takes a step toward her and offers his hand. She shakes it, looking confused, and Greg shrugs and follows Sherlock out of the room.

“Changed your mind about Molly, then?” Greg unlocks the car and gets in. Sherlock joins him, looking a bit distracted.

“In regard to what?”

“You’re being awfully nice to her,” says Greg.

“I’m being cordial as I always am.”

“You are a lot of things, but cordial is not one of them.”

“I believe Molly could do better,” Sherlock says. “I just want to make sure she also knows that by appearing available.”

“So you’d go out with her if she asked?”

“God, no.” He pauses. “Potentially. Am I drunk when she asks?”

“You’re really a horrid person sometimes,” says Greg. “Where am I dropping you off?”

“Baker Street,” Sherlock says. “I have a bit of thinking to do that I can’t do wherever it is you’re going. I assume that’s somewhere with my brother.”

“Your brother has a job,” says Greg. “Though I haven’t determined quite what that is. And he’s in Marrakesh right now, so no, I won’t be going anywhere with him at this time. I have a job, too, you know.”

“Yes, and you’re doing it adequately."

“I’m not going to thank you for that, because it didn’t quite sound like a compliment.” Greg’s mobile buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and flips it open (“You know they don’t have to flip anymore, right?” Sherlock asks).

“Lestrade,” says Greg.

“Do you always answer your phone that way? It makes you sound so debonair.”

“I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or not,” Greg says, and he can tell he’s grinning like an idiot already. “Aren’t we in the same time zone right now? Shouldn’t you be working?”

“I had a moment to spare. Do you not?”

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” says Greg. He hears Sherlock moan “Oh, God,” sounding quite pained.

“Is that my brother with you?” Mycroft asks.

“What was your first clue?”

“The whinging. Definitely the whinging.”

“Yes, he does do that, doesn’t he?”

“I’ve grown quite accustomed to it, and I apologize that you’ve had to do the same.”

“However will you make it up to me?”

“I can think of many potential avenues,” says Mycroft, and Greg, for just a moment, wishes Sherlock could hear this, just to see how he’d react.

“Those are avenues I’d like to explore when you’re back,” Greg says. “Any idea when that’s going to be?”

“Ten days, I’m told. Try not to forget about me in the meantime.”

“No need for that. There’s no forgetting you at this point. We are beyond the pale.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Mycroft pauses. “My brother, has he vomited yet?”

Greg glances over at Sherlock, who does look a little bit ill. “No, but he could at any moment.”

“Shall we wrap this up, then?”

“You didn’t have anything to tell me? You just wanted to talk?”

“I just wanted to talk,” Mycroft confirms. “And we have, and you’re still appealing as you were before, and that reminds me what an excellent idea it was, coming around crime scenes when I had no reason to, keeping a closer eye on you than was strictly necessary. Goodbye, Gregory.”

Greg’s got no reaction to that one. Silently, he drops Sherlock off at Baker Street and pulls his car into park for a moment. All he can think to do is send Mycroft a quick text.

_Did Mycroft Holmes just show me his hand?_

Moments later, his mobile chirps insistently. He pulls it out of his pocket and nearly chuckles out loud at the response.

_I won’t let it happen again. Unless you would want me to._


End file.
